Colder Than Death
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: He deserved to die for the things he had done, but the fact remained that he didn't *want* to die. It was too soon. But whether he wanted it to or not, Death came surely and swiftly.


Colder Than Death  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even my computer.  
  
Author's Note: A short ficlet I wrote up in my spare time at school. And yes, all I think about is Snape. Just ask my friends.  
  
***  
  
Cold. He felt cold. It was strange, considering how, only moments before, his body had been wracked by hot waves of pain. But now... it was empty... cold... so cold.  
  
It was too son for this, too soon for it to be over. He was hardly forty-five, still in his chronological prime. Physically and emotionally, however, he was much older. The war with Voldemort had aged him even more than his previous time with darkness had. It had aged them all. Sometimes he could have sworn that Potter was acquiring extremely premature gray hairs, but who could blame the boy? The child was under more stress than any of them, even himself.  
  
For some reason, he had not thought that the Dark Lord would attack Hogwarts. He had allowed himself to dream that the teachers and students would remain immune, untouched. He had believed that the children would be better off at Hogwarts than home with their families. Then at least, they could have died with the ones they loved. He, of all people, should have known the audacity of Voldemort, should have known how He loved to see children suffer.  
  
The children... they had been so brave, had put what they had learned to use against the vast army of Death Eaters. So many fell, albeit valiantly. But so many lives had been cut violently short. So many...  
  
He remembered seeing young Neville. His glazed eyes started sightlessly up at the ceiling, blood pooling beneath his cracked skull. He had paused to bend down and close the boy's eyes. His stomach had twisted strangely in his guy.  
  
"Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr. Longbottom," he murmured before casting an Avada Kedarva at a Death Eater, the green bolt leaping angrily from the tip of his wand.  
  
So many dead... he could hardly walk without stepping on something... or someone. But the carnage was not what turned his stomach- it was the fact that he would never see these children again, never snap at them for something done wrong. The children who had trusted in them all so much to protect them... gone.  
  
That realization broke open something in him that had been buried for ages. An unbelievable fury washed over him. He abandoned the cover of stealth and shadows and began to barrel his way through the Great Hall, lashing out with his wand at anything that could potentially harm one of his students. His students. Voldemort had no right to take them from him.  
  
He killed perhaps eight Death Eaters before the curse hit him.  
  
The world flashed green for a moment before he was flung backwards into the wall. For a moment, all of the pain blurred together- the pain from the killing curse and the throbbing in his head from the contact with the stone wall. Pain burned through his nerve endings, making him want to scream aloud, to add his voice to the agonized cries of those around him. But no sound came from his parched lips.  
  
Then the cold came. It crept up from his extremities, his fingers and toes, and began to overtake him.  
  
This must be was death felt like. Death was coming with the cold.  
  
But Merlin's beard, death couldn't be this cold. Of course, it wasn't just the numbness in his limbs, it was the fact that he was not *ready*.  
  
He had so much to do. He had left so much unfinished. He wasn't supposed to die... not now, not like this. Not while the children were still fighting.  
  
He was supposed to be married... wasn't that what people were supposed to do before they died? Still, the idea was almost laughable. Him, married? How ridiculous, no matter how nice it might have been.  
  
But he should have done *something* that really mattered. It was too late now. The cold was creeping up his gut, prowling onward to freeze his heart and snuff out the tiny flame of his life, the flickering spark of his pathetic existence.  
  
His eyes watched as bursts of energy zigzagged across the Great Hall. Merlin, he hoped they won, hoped that his death would not be entirely pointless.  
  
Not that he didn't deserve to die for the things he had done, but he didn't *want* to die. He didn't.  
  
But whether he wanted it to or not, Death came, surely and swiftly.  
  
The coldness pierced his heart. He took one last hitching breath that burned his chilled lungs. He whispered, "Forgive me," before exhaling one last time.  
  
***  
  
The Great Hall was dark and in shambles. Half of the students and faculty lie dead, but at least Voldemort would never rise again.  
  
"Lumos," said Dumbledore. The light at the end of his wand cast an eerie glow over the hundreds of corpses. He stepped over a Death Eater, the light suddenly falling across a dark-haired figure slumped against the wall. The headmaster dropped to his knees to gaze sadly into the still face.  
  
"Who is it, Albus?" whispered Minerva, tears lingering in her eyes.  
  
"Severus," he answered, reaching out to gently touch the recent gray streaks that had been added to the ebony hair before closing those dark, deep eyes.  
  
Dumbledore drew his hand back quickly, rubbing it together with his other one. The body was practically frigid, like ice to the touch.  
  
But to Severus Snape, it was no longer cold.  
  
End. 


End file.
